Falling Like Icarus
by the silence in between
Summary: She'd come so close to the sun, to joy, but now her wings are melting and she's falling, like Icarus. Xander and Anya's world is shattered with just one word. Warning: this story deals with abortion.


**Author's Note** — This story was originally written as nine separate drabbles for the LiveJournal community open_on_sunday (this week's prompt is **flight**), and it was inspired in part by the MSNBC documentary _The Assassination of Dr. Tiller_, which, if you haven't seen it, is phenomenal. Watching the documentary also made me think of Rayna Rapp's book _Testing Women, Testing the Fetus_, from which I also drew inspiration. This is a very sensitive topic, and I hope I've done this story justice. That being said, this story may contain triggers, and if you have a strong moral opposition to abortion, you may want to read something else.

**Disclaimer** — _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_, Xander, and Anya all rightfully belong to Joss; not even he torments them like I do.

* * *

"Oh god, I can't look," Anya moans, flailing her hands. "I think I'm gonna throw up."

"Please don't," Xander begs, his coloring slightly green. "Look, we can do this." He takes her hand into his. "Together."

Her eyes briefly widen before she takes a deep breath and nods.

"Now."

They both stare down, standing still in shock. Slowly taking in the blue plus sign.

Then Xander's twirling her around; they're both laughing and crying, and it's like she's flying through the sky, completely unencumbered and free.

"We're having a baby," Xander gasps.

Anya kisses him joyfully. "We're having a baby."

* * *

Once she reaches the second trimester and the threat of miscarriage has subsided, they start working on decorating the baby's room. She's got it all planned out — they're going to paint a mural of the night sky on the walls, with shining gold stars and a big, bright moon.

It's going to take _forever_, but in the end it'll all be worth it. Anya can already see their baby growing up in this room, laughing and playing, watching the birds on his mobile flutter around above his head while he falls to sleep in the crib that Xander made him.

* * *

"It's a boy," the smiling technician tells them.

Misty-eyed, Anya sticks her tongue out at Xander. "Told you."

They're jarred from their joy when the technician stands abruptly and walks to the door. Suddenly, doctors are swooping into the room, as if descending from the sky like vultures, ignoring their frantic questions.

Panic rising, Anya tries to sit. "Lie still," a doctor commands, pushing her shoulder. Her fingernails draw blood from his forearm; in another century, his viscera would be her tiara.

"_Please_," her voice breaks. "What's wrong with my baby?"

The doctor just sighs, pity emanating from his eyes.

* * *

Anencephaly. One word, and their world shatters.

"Is this my punishment?" she whispers after hours of silence. Xander's eyes widen. "For everything I did? For who I was?"

"Honey, no," he whispers, cupping her face. These things just... _happen_ sometimes. Cells make mistakes… nobody knows why."

She remembers when they'd first learned she was pregnant, how free and light she'd felt, like a bird. She'd come so close to the sun, to joy, but now her wings are melting and she's falling, like Icarus. "I just don't _understand_," she sobs into his chest.

He squeezes red-rimmed eyes shut. "Me either."

* * *

"We could do nothing," Xander whispers, looking nauseous. "Let nature take its course, just... wait."

So it comes down to this: fight or flight. Anya can still feel the baby moving; her hands instinctively fall to her stomach, then jerk away. Her body has betrayed her, and what was once the most wonderful feeling in the world is now torturous.

Anya wants to be strong, to fight, but she imagines twenty more weeks of carrying this baby to its death, and it's too much. "I don't think I can," she sobs.

Xander helplessly strokes her hair. "I know," he murmurs.

* * *

"What will they do with him?" Anya asks. They're lying in bed; it's 4am. "Afterwards."

Xander frowns. "I don't know."

"Will we be able to see him?"

"I don't—" he stops abruptly, swallows hard. "I don't know if there'll be... anything left."

Tears prick her eyes. "But he'll be happy, right? Somewhere?"

"Yes," Xander breathes. "Somewhere."

Anya tries to be happy, tries to think of her little angel-baby flying through clouds, warm sunshine on his face, but she doesn't want some intangible angel-baby; she wants her _son_.

Silently weeping, they curl into each other's embrace and wait for morning.

* * *

The sole clinic in Sunnydale won't perform abortions after fourteen weeks; they must fly to LA instead. "What're you having?" one flight attendant asks, smiling at Anya's swollen midsection. Neither knows how to respond.

When they finally arrive at the clinic, angry protesters shout and judge them. Most horrible of all, one man wails, "_Mommy, don't kill me_!"

Anya bursts into tears. Her baby has no brain, can't think or speak; her body is his life support, and can't these people understand that she'd give _everything_ for things to be different?

Xander can only pull her close, squeeze her hand.

* * *

"Mrs. Harris, are you ready?"

Anya looks from the kindly doctor to Xander's pale, tired face. "Can I just, um," he stumbles, "say good-bye?"

She nods, and he bows his head and presses a kiss to her stomach, his thumb gently rubbing circles there. "Fly away, little one," he whispers, his breath warm against her skin. Tears spring to her eyes once more; it seems so unfair that anyone should ever have to cry this much.

"Fly away," she echoes. When Xander looks back at her, his eyes are wet, too.

Finally, Anya looks back at the doctor. "I'm ready."

* * *

Anya holds the mobile in her hands. Spins it, watches the little birdies fly in circles.

She's empty. Her heart, her womb, her arms; only her breasts are full, swollen and hard with milk for a baby that doesn't exist. Everything just _hurts_.

Xander runs his hands along the dark wood of the crib. She remembers how long he'd spent crafting it, making sure it was sturdy, smooth; _perfect_.

Alone in the nursery, they twine their fingers together. It will take time before they're ready to really talk, and heal. But for now they have each other, and it's enough.


End file.
